L&O: Hostage
by lupinskitten
Summary: What seems a boring Friday morning in the DA's office turns into a lifeordeath hostage situation. JackClaire. Your praises rather than critiques are appreciated. I realize this may be a bit of a stretch, but I thought it might be fun to put the characters
1. Chapter 1

He could see the annoyance in her stride as she passed into the inner hall of the building housing the district attorney's offices. Claire Kincaid was accustomed to having her own way. Concealing the smile lurking behind his eyes, Jack McCoy let the revolving door swing closed behind them and followed her to the elevators. Claire pushed the button and looked at him. Her round chin shifted as she clenched her teeth.

"I am not going to win this one, am I?" she asked as the little light above the doors illuminated, notifying them the lift was on its way. His corresponding smile was more than ample response. Jack never gave her an inch when it came to debate, in the courtroom or out of it. She feigned more annoyance than she actually felt, moving forward as the doors opened. It was early and not many people were at work, just those accustomed to odd hours, or with particularly unreasonable trial schedules. Most judges refused to appear before nine, but many attorneys were hard at work pulling together the final threads of their prosecution in the hours before trial.

"It's not that I don't have apathy for him," Jack remarked as the doors closed.

Claire deliberately stood several feet away from him. "Just that you think he should pay for his crimes," she replied, tucking her hair behind her ear and shifting her briefcase to the other hand. She chose not to look at him, but felt his sweeping glance as he appraised her from his corner. It was never dull in the presence of Jack McCoy, whether it was sitting next to him in a theatre seat or doing battle with him over how best to prosecute a case at court. It was one of the many maddening aspects of his dominant personality, and a trait she found attractive whenever it did not drive her to distraction.

"Whatever musical talent the character may possess does not lessen the fact that he was a manipulative, controlling, murdering kidnapper. If he showed up in our office, even _you_ would throw the book at him."

Shooting him a withering glance, Claire replied, "Must everything pertain to our sense of morality in the courtroom, or are we allowed to have separate lives from work? Come on, admit it: you felt sorry for him in the end."

Resting his hand on the elevator handrail, Jack made a noncommittal motion of his shoulders. "I did," he admitted. It produced the smile he so loved and she stepped nearer to him as the doors opened, letting them into the upper hall. The offices were among others in the governmental building, and they had been screened at the side door as they entered. One flash of a badge had let them through the line without being stopped.

The heat that radiated through the open space made Claire sigh as they approached the security desk, where the guard sat, turning through the pages of a magazine. "Good morning, Mr. McCoy, Miss Kincaid," he said. He had noted how they often seemed to appear around the same time in the morning, a feat that was not replicated in the other attorneys in the office.

"Good morning, Patterson," Jack replied, and signed the ledger. The guard handed him an envelope bearing Adam Schiff's penmanship, and he unfolded the contents as his associate added her name to the meager list of individuals who had come to work that morning. There were ledgers for both incoming and leaving attorneys, signifying the number of hours they spent on duty, as well as for guests, every one of which had to sign a separate book.

"The air conditioning still isn't fixed?" Claire asked as she put the pen down and picked back up her leather case. It had quit Monday morning and for the past four days the offices had been like an oven. Fortunately, there was a high-profile trial on their roster and that granted them the ability to leave the offices for several days in a row, but there was nothing pressing that afternoon and Claire loathed the thought of facing the unbearable heat. It also created chaos for the security team, because everyone entering the building had to be searched.

"They're still working on it," the guard replied, with frustration. "_Supposedly_, it should be working by this evening."

"Just in time for the weekend," Jack returned dryly, and lifted his hand in acknowledgement as he made his way toward the office. Some of his coworkers were around, bent over their desks or arguing on the phone, most of them having removed their jackets and opened their collars. The weather forecast called for unbearable heat over the next few days. Lifting the envelope, he said, "Looks like Adam isn't coming in today. He's wanted up state for a judiciary hearing. The court of appeals must have granted us a hearing over jurisdiction for the Madison case."

He opened the door to their conjoined offices and let her precede him. His was on the east end of the building, the windows overlooking the street, and the room was already warm. "I'm surprised he didn't let you handle it," Claire said as he placed his things onto his desk.

"Adam has a good rapport with the presiding justices. I imagine he believes his appearance in the gallery will impress the importance of their ruling." Drawing up the shades, he opened the window, letting the sounds of the city flow into the room. This time of the morning it was mostly cabs traveling up and down town, but before long there would be scooters and pedestrians, a steady stream of attorneys and detectives coming in and out of the building.

Claire moved into her office and switched on the table lamp, leaving her shutters drawn. She intended to keep the room as cool as possible. "The one week we're going to break the heat record for the past hundred years," she remarked, "our air conditioning goes on the flux."

"It's the price of being a civil servant," he replied from the outer room, and dropped behind the desk. Having spent most of his childhood in Chicago, he was more acclimated to the heat than she was. Claire did not deal with it well, usually winding up with a migraine. He would have encouraged her to go home had not he needed her for a deposition that afternoon.

They worked in silence as the clock ticked away the hours. There was not much on the agenda and Claire was just finished with her case studies when his shadow fell across her desk. She was working on a deposition by lamplight, and glanced up as he leaned against the doorjamb. "Dr. Olivet sent me her findings on the Madison case," she said. "She believes he has a formidable defense for extreme emotional distress." He gave no sign of more than a passing interest, and after a significant pause, she asked, "What are you doing this weekend?"

Fridays were the most content days of the week, for it brought about closure to many of their cases. Most juries did not want to start a new week of deliberation and reached verdicts on this day, and the offices were blessedly silent. Her voice did not interrupt the flow of productivity, remaining quiet enough not to carry beyond his ears. Jack crossed to the sofa beneath the row of bookshelves gracing the far wall. Most of the volumes were similar to his, but interspersed among the law journals were a number of titles that he frequently borrowed to weigh against his cases. He ran his finger along the volumes and took one down, opening it.

"My daughter is going abroad with her friends on Sunday afternoon," he said. "She's flying in from Chicago tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

Claire dropped her gaze and turned her pencil over in her hands. He spoke so rarely of his ex-wife and daughter that much of the time she forgot their existence. He was not one for personal information, and though blunt and unrepentant about his previous romantic entanglements, it had been months before she managed to learn details. It was rare Jack left the office before midnight, and his wife's competitive nature collided with his abilities in the courtroom. He had not been able to give her as much attention as she wanted. She had remarried within five years, and their relationship remained platonic. Claire had not yet met his daughter, but knew she looked like Jack from the photograph he kept at home.

"My father wants to see me tomorrow," she remarked.

Jack knew she would have relished an excuse to avoid the situation. Her relationship with him was at best strained, the result of attempts to gain approval that met with indifference. Mr. Kincaid wanted more for his daughter than she wanted for herself. He studied her across the room, features concealed in the shadows, and closed the book. "Does he still want you to go into private practice?"

"I imagine so. It's not a topic we have discussed recently. I haven't spoken to him since the bar association dinner." She turned the pen over in her fingers, knowing she should not repeat what her father had told her that evening. Most were indifferent to or unaware of her relationship with McCoy outside the office, but there were enough rumors to have guaranteed her father's interest. Jack had something of a reputation, and their chemistry was evident to anyone with eyes. Her father did not approve. McCoy was older than she was, significantly older, and not the type of man her father wanted her to marry.

Jack remembered that dinner all too well, the pale nature of her countenance as she hurried him into the taxi before it ended, refusing to confide in him intimate details. "Claire," he said, and she looked up from the pen turning endlessly in her fingertips. His eyes softened and the faint lines around them deepened, but he was prevented further comfort by the appearance of a figure in the doorway. She looked nervously from one to the other as she tucked a long strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Mr. McCoy?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice. She reminded him so much of his daughter that he did not immediately answer, setting the book aside as she hovered on the threshold. There was something familiar about her, although he could not place what it was.

"Yes," he said as Claire rose to her feet behind the desk, her features absolved in the shadows. The girl glanced at his companion, fingering her shoulder bag. He sensed she would be more at ease in his office and indicated she step into it, a motion that she took gratefully. The darkness of the inner room intimidated her. In the natural light he could see she was no more than eighteen, and there was a hardening of her features from life on the streets.

"The guard told me you work closely with Mr. Schiff?" she asked, holding tightly the strap of her bag, her fingers turning white with the strain. Jack leaned against his desk, placing himself more on her eye level.

"I'm his Executive Assistant. Is there something I can help you with?" He was not at ease with her awareness of her surroundings. She had chosen to stand where she might look over the elevators and corridor, and although she attempted to keep her gaze level on him, her eyes flickered occasionally beyond. They did not fit the rest of her nerves, for they remained constant and unfeeling, almost cold. She shifted from one foot to the other and replied, "I read in the papers that you handled the Jackson case."

His hands lightly touched the edge of the desk that supported him, brow darkening as he remembered the details, a difficult rape-homicide trial against one of the most intimidating defendants he had ever encountered. It was then he remembered where he had seen her, among the observers in the gallery. As he had returned to the prosecutor's bench after cross-examining a witness on the stand, he had locked gazes with her. For a lingering instant, they had looked at one another, he with a faint dawning of uncertainty, and her with a steely gaze intent on imprinting his likeness into her mind. She had followed him in off the street; not daring to enter the building until security was overly taxed, attempting to search the men passing through with repair equipment.

"It's evident you remember the details," she said softly, perching on the arm of the chair he offered her. It was a birdlike movement, and she placed her purse in her lap. "Let me further clarify them. You put my brother in prison, Mr. McCoy, you and Adam Schiff, and he died there, did you know that? Some 'homeboy' stabbed him in the neck with a shank. He was going to do four years for testifying in the Jackson case. If he had kept his mouth shut, he would still be alive. Your deal, the deal your boss told you to make, got him killed."

The outburst was so unexpected that it brought Claire nearer, hand dropping from where it had been lifting the hair off the back of her neck. It was sweltering in the office and what bare skin could be seen beneath the curves of her neckline glistened. Jack barely looked at her, but she knew from the twitch of his brow what he wanted, and moved toward the door. He had seen enough defendants to know when they were not rational, and this girl, though so calm in her planning, was not in command of her senses. She was struggling to maintain them, but brewing beneath the surface was something dangerous.

"In my line of work," he said, "I am forced to make difficult decisions about what defendants we will prosecute. Your brother was facing fifteen years on a conviction. It was his choice to testify. He came to us with information, we did not approach him. We had no reason to suspect repercussions for his testimony."

The girl let out a humorless laugh. "When was the last time you were on the street, Mr. McCoy? You may see the worst of society on a daily basis, but you don't really know how the world works, how the lower class lives in this city. He didn't last two months! Somebody has to be responsible for what happened to him."

Claire reached the doorway and just as she was about to motion the guard, the girl said, "_Don't_." Long fingers curved around the doorway as she looked back into the room, and her brown eyes widened as she found herself looking down the barrel of a gun.


	3. Chapter 3

They had not searched her at the door. Not on a hot, bothersome day like this, when a well-dressed young woman looking as tearful as she did asked to speak with Jack McCoy. The weapon shook slightly but the features behind it remained resolved. Jack did not immediately respond, every muscle tensing as the girl motioned his assistant into the office, asking her to close the door. His features were masked, transforming into the indifference that suited him so well facing down a convict at Rikers.

The rest of the staff did not notice their plight, going on about their business. The security guard's back was to them. The young woman's arms glistened with sweat, but her stance remained stable. Claire joined him at the desk, her fingers barely brushing against his, clammy against the smooth surface. He remembered her brother, and the long conversation in Rikers. He had wanted to take the deal for his sister Chanterelle, so he could be out in four years rather than fifteen.

"This is a mistake, Chanterelle," he said, and her dark eyes widened. It was the first genuine alarm he found in her, a brief glimpse beneath the intricate deception she had put forth with her appearance. She was not as nervous as she pretended, but that he knew who she was brought her to a halt. It was not the first time he had faced down an angry, misguided teenager, nor seen the barrel of an automatic pointed in his direction. Once, his father, in a profound rage, had aimed at him. Jack had thought for one horrible instant the gun would go off, but it didn't.

"How did you know my name?" she demanded.

"Your brother told me about you. He said you were an intelligent, gifted student. Don't throw your life away on an error of judgment."

She backed away, both hands on the weapon, her bag lying forgotten on the floor. Golden waves framed a face that should have been bent over college applications, not challenging the executive district attorney in his office, with a host of witnesses beyond the glass doors. "You sound like my father," she said angrily.

Claire sensed it would be a mistake to push it. Her hand moved just enough to touch his, an indication of her concern. He rose to his feet, no longer concerned with making the girl comfortable. "Maybe you should listen to him," he replied. "Chanterelle, what happened to your brother was terrible. I should have used more wisdom in that situation. But this is not what he wanted for you. If that gun goes off, if you hurt anyone, you are looking at a life sentence. This is not a game. This is the district attorney's office. Now, give me the gun."

He used the tone that never failed to work with his daughter, no matter how stubborn or impulsive she could be. Though she was seventeen, and constantly attempting to fight for her own way, he still held influence over her. Chanterelle was no different, and Claire could see her wavering in her decision, looking at him as a figure of authority standing between her and the edge. She had never been more impressed with him than in that moment, not in their two years together in the office, or the private moments when she saw him at ease among friends.

Lifting her chin slightly, Chanterelle released the safety and they heard an audible click. "You think I won't fire," she said softly, "but I'm not as inexperienced as you might think, Mr. McCoy. How many people came to work this morning?"

Jack shook his head, and her gaze shifted to his associate. Claire looked at her helplessly and ventured, "Twenty or so. Some of them have gone home." Her stamina was wavering as the afternoon wore on, the sun beating against the glass windows and making the inner offices like an oven. Chanterelle contemplated them a moment, and said, "I want them all to gather in the conference room. You are going to account for each and every one, Miss Kincaid. You are not going to alarm them, or give them any indication that something is wrong. I know you won't give me any excuse to see if my aim has improved."

Though she hated leaving him, Claire rose to her feet and left the office, closing the door softly behind her. Face flushed and hands shaking, she walked through the inner rooms, sticking her head around doors and requesting the attorneys meet in the conference room. Some asked why, frustrated and overworked with looming caseloads and little patience for nonsense, and she made excuses. Most were curious and a few slightly alarmed, but the remaining fifteen people who had not gone home early entered the room and were seated, or remained standing near the water cooler. Their progress was observed from the office, Chanterelle careful never to let her gaze wander from her hostage for too long. Jack remained silent, determined to see just where she intended to go with this, and at her bidding crossed the hall to the office. He was privileged to see the sweep of emotions that passed through his coworkers when they saw the gun, ranging from incredulous and disbelieving to disapproving shock and horror.

It was darker there, more contained, and the chances of Chanterelle being taken out by a bullet lessened considerably. He moved to join his associates, feeling Claire's hand slip discreetly into his. It was immediate that the security team learned of the situation, but there was little they could do. There were six bullets in the chamber, and no guarantees she wasn't a decent shot. With so many faces to choose from, Chanterelle's interest in him faded slightly and he was able to speak without being scrutinized. They were allowed to sit on the floor, and he remained close to Claire, only occasionally shifting his gaze from their captor.

"Do you think she'll actually do anything, Jack?" she whispered, listening to the labored breathing of her companions. The room was so hot that most found it difficult to breathe; their one conciliation was that their captor found it a hardship as well.

His features were a complex study at this short distance, for she could see his mind working behind them. Jack was not certain what direction the situation might take, but instinct prompted him to put nothing past her. "I don't know," he confessed. "Without Liz here, I have no hope of reading her intentions. She could be completely stable and in command of her emotions, determined to make a point and nothing more, or with very little left to lose, she might find the idea of taking down a few of us with her to be appealing."

Claire nodded and he looked at her, concern darkening his features. "Are you all right?" he asked, and reached out to touch the side of her face. She was hot, her head pounding with a migraine. Resting it against his shoulder, she closed her eyes. Chanterelle had remained silent for a while, but now said dryly, "Your air conditioning sucks," and was the recipient of a number of glares. It was not long before the phone rang, and she ordered one of the assistants to pick it up. Jack's eyes shifted from the girl to his associate, catching the man's gaze for a lingering instant as he listened into the line. "It's the police," he said, holding out the phone to their captor. "They want to speak with you."

"Tell them I won't speak to anyone but Adam Schiff."

"Jack," came a voice from nearby, and he turned to find the attractive face of Tracey Kibre beside him. She had come into the office shortly after he had been promoted, and the two shared a respectful relationship. On rare occasion there were mild spats over cases, but for the most part he appreciated her formidable legal mind and common sense. Long legs propped up in front of her, her high heels revealed beneath the cuff of her black trousers, she leaned slightly toward him and said, "We can't just sit here all afternoon waiting for the police to do something."

"Unless you relish taking the chance of getting some of us killed, I don't see that we have much of a choice."


	4. Chapter 4

His brown eyes turned toward the woman now perched on the edge of the table, resting the gun in her lap. She was not holding it as tightly, but there was nothing relaxed in her pose. The remaining attorneys were seated along the walls on the floor, all of them resigned to, but not appreciative of, their fate. It had been almost four hours and they were approaching evening. Most of his colleagues looked exhausted, but keen minds were at work beneath the sweaty brows. Claire was so damp that her hair clung to her neck, and with effort she pushed slightly away from him, knowing her body heat was only further taxing his limitations.

He had wanted to attend police academy like his father, but had been told instead to become an attorney. "_They are the real ones with the power_," McCoy senior had said. "_I, and my profession, son, we just catch the bad guy. I want you to become one of the people who put them away_." It was that instinct thinking now, waiting for a moment of opportunity.

The phone rang. Everyone lifted their heads to stare at it, the girl making no movement to answer it. Her cold gaze lifted beneath the wet strands of hair falling across her face, and fixed on him. It rippled across to the woman beside him, and she said, "You know his voice, Miss Kincaid. You talk to him, and tell me if it really is the illustrious Adam Schiff."

Claire was assisted to her feet and tucking her hair behind her ears, approached the phone. Jack lingered in the background, hands in his pockets. There was something pouting in their captor's expression, meaningfully deceptive, as if she were childishly thrilled that they had no choice but to obey her. Lifting the receiver from the cradle, Claire said her last name into it, and heard the lucid tones of Anita Van Buren on the other end. "Schiff has just arrived," she said. "We're on the street below. Is everyone all right, Claire?"

"We're fine," she replied emotionlessly, staring into the girl's eyes. They were void of compassion, of anything beyond bold determination. There were occasional flickers of humanity, of innocence, but she had come this far and there was no turning back. It would take a good deal to catch her off guard, but if they could manage it, it would not be difficult to disarm her. Anita's voice remained calm as she said, "We are in position, just waiting for an opportunity to come in. We have sealed off the exits and evacuated the building. I'm handing off the line."

Lowering the receiver from her lips, Claire said, "He's coming in now." Her gaze shifted beyond the girl's slender form to Jack. He looked at her, and an unspoken communication passed between them. Chanterelle seemed oblivious to it, insisting, "Put him on speakerphone." She was not about to let an uncensored conversation pass between them.

The slender hand lowered and pressed the button as he set down the receiver. Adam had been removed from the courtroom, and apprised of the situation as his bodyguard escorted him to the automobile set to return him to Manhattan. He had arrived on a scene of flashing cop cars and nervous detectives, sharpshooters on corresponding buildings, and armed forces on the front steps. Anita came to meet him, hurrying him into the white van parked on the curb. "We have Kincaid on the phone," she said.

"And McCoy?" he asked, uncertain as to who might have been in the building. Some of the attorneys had left before lunch and returned to find the street in chaos. Most of them were being questioned to discern who remained.

"The security guard said he checked in, and there have been no shots fired. The girl has not made any formal demands, except that she wants to speak to you. Be careful." Anita handed him the line and he took it, hesitating a moment before speaking gruffly into the phone. "Schiff," he said, and there was a visible response through those gathered, as if their kindly father had spoken, and the mere presence of his voice reassured them somehow it would be all right.

"Adam," Jack said levelly, remaining within an arm's length of the girl, who had her gun trained on him. The difference in their height was enough to warn her of his potential threat. "It seems we have a bit of a situation here."

There was a note of irony in his voice, and the emotion that accompanied it. His collar was undone and a shock of graying dark hair fell over his forehead. Chanterelle turned to look at Claire and asked, "Is it him?"

Claire nodded, her lips slightly parted. She did not pay attention to the conversation that ensued so much as her determination to figure out what Jack was planning, the voices of Adam Schiff, and their captor blending into the background. Jack was careful not to look at Chanterelle, maintaining eye contact with Claire as they attempted to reason over the phone. The hand holding the weapon remained steady, aimed directly at his head, but he face behind it shook slightly, anger radiating through it. Slowly, he removed his hands from his pockets.


	5. Chapter 5

In the open van outside, Anita removed her headphones as she caught sight of a girl attempting to push her way through the police barricades. Detective Rey Curtis was hovering nearby and she indicated he attend the issue. Adam was doing his best to keep her calm, wondering what else was happening five stories up in his legal offices. The lieutenant shifted her attention as the girl was let through the line. She was leggy and rather pretty, with long dark hair swept into a loose ponytail and eerily familiar features. The taxi she had abandoned was still parked at the curb, the meter running, and the detective was walking her in the direction of the van.

"Lu," Rey started, but the young woman demanded, "Where's my dad?"

She head heard about it on the news, walking into the terminal of JFK international airport. No more had she gotten off the plane than her attention was drawn to the news.

Van Buren stepped out of the van, indicating for one of her fellow officers to take her place, and Rey said, running a hand anxiously over the back of his neck, "McCoy's daughter. She just flew in from Chicago an hour ago. He was supposed to pick her up." His tone was demure, but she sensed the torment raging beneath his dark composure. Curtis and McCoy did not get along in most situations, but as a father of daughters, this one hit a little close to home. It might have been his daughter to hear about it on the news, to wonder what was happening.

"We are doing everything we can to get him out of there," Anita reassured her, walking her out of range of the television cameras. "I need you to remain calm, and stay with the officer. As soon as I know anything, I will tell you." She could see much of McCoy in his daughter, in the intensity of her gaze and the quiet lines of her features, even the unique tone of her voice. Rachel nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, escorted by the officer to one of the police cars.

Returning to the van and picking up the receiver, Van Buren heard the girl's voice crackle across the line. "I don't have to reason with you. We can play this game all night, or we can get to the particulars. I'll make you a trade, Mr. Schiff. I'll let three people go. You promise to come in here, to look me in the face and explain why you let my brother die, and I'll release them all. Because it is you, after all, that I came to see, not Mr. McCoy, or Miss Kincaid, or any of your other little minions. You have a thousand attorneys, and as many cops, one of the greatest police forces in the country, yet you are so narrow-sighted that you could not see one man's perilous fate."

Leaning against the near wall with his arms crossed, Jack shifted his focus with that statement. "Adam," he said, "don't do it."

He was immediately the recipient of everyone's attention. There was silence on the other end of the line. He was exhausted of the situation, of the ridiculousness nature of it, the fact that a seventeen year old was attempting to barter their lives with the police. "Look," he said, "you don't need any of them. You said it yourself, you don't care about anyone except the person responsible for placing your brother in jeopardy."

"_What the hell is he doing?_" Van Buren hissed to Arthur, her hand over the mouthpiece. The weathered face of her companion revealed his similar feelings as the line suddenly went dead.

Jack removed his hand from the button on the front of the phone, his colleagues watching in stunned silence. Looking down at her, he said, "This situation is not going to lead where you want it to. The police aren't about to agree to a trade. Adam Schiff will never enter this building and you know it. It was to a disadvantage that he wasn't here today, but it also means you still have time to back out of a murder conviction." He stepped between the gun and Claire, and for the first time saw a flicker of respect in the girl's eyes. She was listening to him. "Let my colleagues go," he said softly, "and we'll handle this."

Claire started to say his name, but was silenced when he held out his hand. Chanterelle gazed at him from behind the level of the gun and then nodded. "Get out," she said, "all of you, except you, Miss Kincaid." She was not stupid, had seen the glances between them, and knew enough to sense they cared for one another. The others slipped out of the room and down the stairs, their footsteps echoing faintly until they were assisted by the police. Only three remained now, in the sweltering heat, all of them damp with sweat but their keen minds working rapidly. Claire leaned against the waist-high shelves behind her, arms crossed.

The phone rang again and Chanterelle yanked the cord from the wall. "I don't want to talk to them anymore," she said, and he could see she was on the verge of either giving up or snapping. He had spent numerous hours in the presence of Dr. Olivet, whose evaluations of patients he trusted, and could detect the classic symptoms of stress. "This isn't what I wanted," she said, keeping the gun aimed at his head. "I sat in that courtroom every day during the trial, not just when my brother was on the stand, and I listened to you present the case. And you did a good job, but what was it you said to the press, Mr. McCoy? That sometimes people get run over when you're prosecuting a murder trial? Do you ever think about the victims you leave behind? The lives that are ruined because of the deals you make?"

He was watching her intently, offering no response. Then, it happened. The air conditioning system kicked on. The thunderous sound echoed through the air shafts in the building, and distracted her just for an instant. An instant was all it took. Claire did not completely see what happened, only that the back of Jack's hand caught the girl across the face and sent her crashing to the ground. Air flooded out the vents, lifting the hair off her neck as Jack picked up the gun and emptied the bullets onto the table.

"God forgive me," he said, gazing at the unconscious form on the floor.

Lennie Briscoe appraised the dazed look on the defendant's face as she was led from the building, then cracked, "Wow, Counselor. Maybe we should have _you_ in the interrogation room more often." His humor was not shared by his companion, but it was meaningful when he added, "You may be a hard hat, McCoy, but I'm glad you're all right. You might want to stop by the van on your way out. Your daughter is just about to cut the police tape and come up for herself."

Trailing Claire to the elevator, Jack turned as the detective added, "She's just like you, Jack."

"Fortunately, she _looks_ like her mother," he retorted, and pressed the button.

Claire entered with him and leaned against the railing, watching as the doors closed and took them down. There was a moment of silence before she said, "Hard to believe twelve hours ago we were in this same elevator, little realizing what we were in for." The note of melancholy faded from her voice, and a hint of her humor returned, the same humor that allowed her to see the best in every situation. It was this that prompted her fierce arguments with Adam Schiff, the optimism that most men were good in some aspect of their life, that trials came out fairly and in the end, the good guys would always win. "It figures the air conditioning would come on now, when the building is going to be empty all weekend."

Jack smiled at her from across the elevator, attempting to repress the thoughts Chanterelle had awakened in him, wondering if perhaps he had not made a mistake in her brother's case. "It's the price of being a civil servant," he replied as they came to a gentle halt. The light flashed on and as the doors opened, he pushed away from the wall.

"Come on, Claire," he said, taking her arm, "I'll introduce you to my daughter."

THE END


End file.
